


How It All Started

by WowItsAlmostLikeICare



Series: Hunter Of Men [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Baby Dean Winchester, Baby Sam Winchester, Child Death, Cute Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester reads Vonnegut, Dean Winchester-centric, Do I need to add any warnings?, Gen, How Do I Tag, Hurt Dean Winchester, It will become relevant later on, Its implied, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Dean Winchester, Pls let me know if I leave something out, Pre-Series Dean Winchester, Promise, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, References to Michael and Co., Sam is a smol baby, Smart Dean Winchester, They/Them Pronouns for Dagon because plot, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester, i don’t know lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:47:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24249031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WowItsAlmostLikeICare/pseuds/WowItsAlmostLikeICare
Summary: It was his fault that they had had to leave the house. His fault that they moved around constantly, never stopping in one place longer than a few months. His fault that all this had happened. He knew this because that’s what his father had said.His fault.His fault.His fault.*****Dean has one goal in this life and its to protect Sammy. He'll be damned before he lets John get in the way of that.
Relationships: Azazel & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: Hunter Of Men [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1639159
Comments: 7
Kudos: 65





	1. The Plan

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so I tried.  
> Disclaimer: Not My Characters, just eventually will be my story. Constructive criticism welcome! All mistakes are my own. Please let me know if I forgot to tag something. Beta read by the fantabulos[ TinyAncientDragon ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinyAncientDragon)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so I tried.  
> Disclaimer: Not My Characters, just eventually will be my story. Constructive criticism welcome! All mistakes are my own. Please let me know if I forgot to tag something.

The plan had taken years to formulate, centuries even. The merging of the Campbell and Winchester lines had made even the most stuck-up of angels buck-up and take an interest in humanity. The last time a human had made such an impact on the higher ups had been in the early years of AD 27-29. Now that had been a time to be alive.

He grinned to himself, amused. The way things had ended had just been so… _delicious_. It had been the first step taken in ensuring that The Plan would come to fruition, and he would forever savour the look on Naomi’s face when down-below had succeeded. The angels lack of ability to ‘think outside of the box’ had worked in their favour.

Tempting a human to follow through with their plan had been a stroke of genius. That the human had been a close friend was just an added bonus. Of course the angels couldn’t just leave it there, no, but regardless it had all had the same result. The beginning of The Plan. All that that had entailed lead him to here, an unimportant looking, suburban house in Lawrence, Kansas.

As he observed the house, he could sense the rapidly fading imprint of grace that a curious angel wanting to see Michael’s true Vessel, had left behind. That wouldn’t do. Tonight there could be no interruptions. He didn’t want them to see how down-below had altered The Plan to give themselves an edge. An edge, he thought privately, that they would need.

No that wouldn’t do at all. With a quick snap of his fingers he warded the whole area, shielding it from prying eyes and creating a virtual black hole of nothingness that all supernatural beings who looked that way would see.

Once that was done, he took careful and unhurried steps towards the door. He could sense the souls inside and a shiver of delight travelled down his spine. The bright beacons of innocent children’s souls beckoned to him, a siren song calling out to his kind. But that wasn’t what had elicited such a pleasant feeling.

No, it was that of the soul balancing on a precipice, subconsciously sensing that it was at a milestone, at a point where it could traverse down two separate roads. These souls where his favourite, only needing a light push before they began their descent. Humans and their emotional responses to situations did half the job for most demons. His lips curled up in a parody of a smile. Yes, this soul would soon belong to downstairs and he would cause its fall.

He entered the house, invisible to the man on the couch. He pushed a light mental suggestion in the mans direction, causing him to fall into a deep sleep, before making his way to the staircase where he took soft, unhurried steps up the stairs. Pictures of smiling figures lined the wall and he ran a finger along the cool glass as he ascended. Soon things would be different, if things went according to The Plan.

Having completed one last check for prying eyes, he entered a small room at the top of the landing and on the far left. The walls of the room glowed in a warm yellow light that rapidly began to darken as he neared the main reason for his journey.

The room was a nursery, and there, pushed up against the back wall, was his duty. It was a cot of no particular interest save for what it contained. His future charge and Hell’s only chance of winning the War against the accursed angels.

The baby looked up at him with large hazel eyes and gurgled softly. He felt another smile threatening to break free. Finally, after all this time it was coming together.

He reached in and lifted the child into his arms, the future vessel of his Lord as it continued to gaze at him with its round eyes. He shifted it over to one arm and shushed it quietly as it began to fuss. Behind him he heard the nursery door opening. He rolled his eyes. Hadn’t he warned that women not to come? It would be just like a hunter to ignore a warning in favour of their arrogance.

He prepared himself to get rid of the disturbance when the door closed just as quickly as it had opened, leaving him alone again with the child.

He made a small incision on his hand with a sharp nail and then slowly tilted the child down and held the bleeding wound over its open mouth. Drops of his blood fell into it and he kept the wound open until he deemed that the child had taken in a sufficient amount, healing the cut with a mere thought.

This would ensure that the boy would be a stronger vessel for his Lord. The angels wouldn’t try the same for the other boy. In a weird and convoluted way of thinking they believed that by adding grace to strengthen the child, they would then somehow corrupt it, making it impure and not ‘good enough’ for their Great Saviour Michael. It was silly and didn’t make sense but those down-below weren’t going to complain, not if it gave them an added advantage in the final battle.

Once finished he placed the child back in its cot, and with a flick of his hand cleaned up any stray blood splotches on and around its mouth. He was done. He made a move to turn around and leave the way he had come, when from down the hall he heard rapid footsteps.

The door quickly swung open with a loud bang and a hoarse cry of ‘Sammy!’ There, in all her glory, stood Mary Campbell Winchester. She was panting, face etched with worry, blonde curls in wild disarray. How different she was to the fierce hunter he had once seen. He sneered at her. Motherhood had made her soft, and the fact that there was no protection against supernatural creatures of any kind in the house showed her wishful, ignorant thinking. Foolish woman.

He dismissed her and made to walk past. A hand on his arm stopped him. He stared down at her, a taunt on the tip of his tongue which died when he met her eyes. They blazed with an unrivalled fury.

“What have you done to my son you bastard!” she spat, face twisted with anger and filled with loathing. This, this creature looking at him, magnificent in its ferocity was the real Mary Campbell, the mother of two Vessels to be used for the greatest and most powerful of beings. This was the mother of gods. He revelled in that desperation for her son, in that pure unbridled hate. All for him. He clicked his tongue.

“Come now Mary. Don’t you remember all those years ago hmmm? The life of your beloved Johnny boy for a favour later on? Don’t tell me human memory is so weak that you’ve already forgotten. And here I was thinking I had left quite the impression,” he mocked, lips tipped up in a cruel smile. He grinned as she flinched, dropping his arm and jumping back from as if it had burned her.

He could see her quickly sizing him up before her eyes flickered over to her son. Fear, worry and love flashed in her eyes before they swivelled back to him and hardened.

“This has been coming for a long time Azazel,” she said before reaching for something behind her. His eyes widened when he saw what it was.

Oh ho! So little Mary hadn’t lost all of her hunters training then. He smirked down at the long blade in her hand. An angels by the looks of it. Now, where had she gotten that? No angel, no matter how important the woman was, would give up their blade. Especially not for a silly little ‘Mud Monkey’. And last he checked, and check he did, there weren’t any blades active on the little backwater muck that was this planet. It wouldn’t do for weapons that could actually harm him to be left lying around, now would it?

“Mary, Mary quite contrary. And here I was thinking that you had gone soft. Why don’t you hand me that little trinket before you get hurt, huh? That way we can forget any of this ever happened and both be on our separate merry ways. That sound good to you?”

“Burn in hell you monster,” she cried before lunging forward. The blade glanced off the side of his body as he stepped back out of reach. Clearly she was out of practice, but still. It was the principle of the matter. And it bloody well hurt. He said as much. She simply smirked in response.

“Alright then, if that’s how you want to play it.” He raised his hand and slammed her up against the wall. Hard. There. She could sit tight and be patient, waiting there whilst he finished with what he had been doing.

“See, Mary, I was just going to leave little, what was it you said? Sammy? I was just going to leave little Sammy here with enough juice to strengthen him up a little, no major changes unlike some of my other chosen. A favour from me to you. But now, now you’ve really just gone and pissed me off,” He bared his teeth at her, and then his voice lost all amusement.

“So here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to corrupt, and destroy all that makes a human a human. As he age,s his blood will become indistinguishable from that of a demon's, so that no matter the decisions he makes, how hard he tries to be good, he will always be ours and always belong to us. That sound good sweetheart?” he crooned the last bit down at the small baby in it's cot. He lifted it, _Sammy_ , out again and, making another small incision on his wrist, dripped a few small drops of his blood into tiny Sammy's mouth as Mary began trying to exorcise him.

He snorted at her pathetic attempts. As if someone of his stature would be sent back by something so weak. Points to her for trying though.

Azazel wiped the blood that had fallen onto Sammy’s chin away with his sleeve, watching with amusement as it stained his shirt a dark red before he banished it, leaving behind a plain-looking plaid shirt once more. He couldn’t go around leaving clues now could he? After all, he would have his fun watching Johnny boy attempt to figure out what was wrong with his precious baby. Mary began to shout behind her metaphysical gag. He smirked. Now what to do about darling mummy?

He hummed to himself. He had liked her guts, her fierce bravery, but now it only grated on his nerves. Tapping his chin, he gazed up at her. He raised his hand and slowly began to drag her up towards the ceiling.

What to do, what to do. Well, he had admired her guts, and fierceness, so… He grinned as a bloody slash cut itself across her front and flames jumped up around her. The screams torn from her throat thrilled him.

As he gazed up at her spectacle he felt a prickling sensation along his neck. He blinked slowly, taking in the small form of a child of about four to five years or so staring up at him. The wide green eyes, so like their now unimportant mother, left little doubt as to who it was. Dean Winchester. The Michael Sword. 

He could feel the bright soul of the child, bolstered by the claim left on it by Michael’s icy grace. A warning for all denizens of both Heaven and Hell to stay away, that this boy was owned by another. The mark was similar to that of Lucifer’s fiery brand that was wrapped around little Sammy’s soul.

Still, this was an inconvenience, even if it was a minor one at that. How long had the boy been standing there? How much had he seen? He couldn’t risk the boy telling others of this, even if the humans would only think it that of a vivid imagination. It would find the right, or wrong, ears eventually and then there would be hell to pay. Or more accurately Heaven. He wasn’t quite sure if that last bit had made sense, but, he mused, it could be forgiven, as it had been a long couple of centuries. He was dragged out of his thoughts by a small whimper. Ah yes, the boy.

He pushed forward a small mental probe, being uncharacteristically gentle as he tried to quietly enter the boys mind, hoping to erase what the boy might have seen without causing damage that the holier-than-thous would see and immediately latch on to.

He did not need that kind of scrutiny, not when all of his little experiments were running around, and he had just put enhancements on little Sammy. His higher-ups would immediately distance themselves from him and leave him to fend for himself when the angels would inevitably seek revenge on him. He would be killed and The Plan postponed another couple of centuries.

He attempted to delve deeper, past the conscious layer and into the memories, when he slammed against a block of sorts and was thrown out. That...that wasn’t supposed to happen. He reached out with his mind again, trying to find the boys weakness, thinking maybe it was a fluke, when once again he was met with a strong block and thrown out.

He frowned. That wasn’t possible! No person should be able to keep him out, let alone a young human. He examined the boy closely, scanning his soul, hoping to find a clue as to what had happened but nothing was forthcoming. As he poked around the shield, he could see that the block was not of supernatural origin, not caused by another being, but almost seemed to be part of him.

How was he doing that? He narrowed his eyes and planted his feet, readying himself for a proper in-depth search of the boy, when he was interrupted by the arrival of none other than Johnny boy. He had run out of time.

Cursing, he looked up to meet John's startled hazel eyes, flashing his own sickly yellow ones back at him with a sadistic smirk, mocking him. He dismissed the boy, resolving to pay more attention to the matter later, before he stretched his leathery wings and took flight towards his superior, leaving chaos in his wake.

* * *

As he arrived at his destination his eyes travelled around, taking in the whitewashed walls of a hospital. He was standing in one of the corridors, the smell of bleach almost overwhelming in its intensity. He looked for the source of the smell and saw two nurses scrubbing futilely at what appeared to be a dark stain on the floor.

That in itself was all the sign he needed, to know that Lilith had been through the area and was likely further along in the hospital. She always left bloody corpses in her wake before swiftly moving on. She was rarely topside, but when she was, she left her mark, with entire gatherings of people dying in a cacophony of moans and screams.

He had always wondered how no hapless hunter had stumbled upon her yet, but he supposed that it was just far more likely and far more believable, for the massacres to be done by human hand rather than that of an ancient demon from the beginning of time itself, or rather the beginning of humanity at least. Humans after all became the most bloodthirsty of demons.

He closed his eyes and widened his senses before locating Lilith’s powerful mass of energy. He glided quietly down the hallways of the hospital towards it. He finally located it in the maternity ward. Of course. And…yes, there she stood with her back to him.

“Is it done?” She asked in a lilting voice, high with the musicality of youth, as she turned to face him.

“Of course,” He said, looking down to meet her eyes, suppressing the urge to roll his own at her vessel choice.

Always with the children. He would never understand her blatant obsession with them, with youth in general. It really was strange. And that was coming from him. She hooked her claws into the bodies of children, using them and their youth up, before discarding them. Ever since she had been cast from Eden she had preferred to take up the visage of a child. 

Some days she was a little girl, prancing along, pigtails bouncing as she lured the unaware into her traps, others a young boy with an angelic face and cherubic curls that tempted and turned those devout men, convincing them to act upon hidden desires and depraved thoughts. Sometimes she took the children simply for the pleasure of draining their innocence and playfulness from them, always desperate for what they had and what she didn’t, something that she coveted, hoped to replicate. But she never quite got what she wanted, never quite got it right.

He personally believed it was all to do with the eyes. Perhaps she could copy the glow of their youth, their rosy cheeks and unblemished skin. She could study and replicate perfectly their innocent sweetness that shone in their smiles. But never, never, could she get the eyes right. Hers were always a touch too sharp, a touch too cruel or knowing, that spoke of how they saw more than you wanted them to, how they knew more than they should.

He looked down at her now, at the round face staring up at him and inwardly gave a shudder. Yes, those dark eyes definitely saw too much. As he looked he pondered another problem. That of the eldest Winchester child.

By rights, no child should have been able to do what he had done. No child’s mind could resist that of a demons, especially not one of his calibre. He wondered if he should tell her about the problem of the eldest Winchester. On the one hand, it would be better to let her know now in case it came back later to bite them in the arse, and Lilith discovered his treachery in keeping the knowledge of it hidden. 

Would he even survive such a confrontation? He figured not. On the other, if it really was just a simple glitch in the matrix, so to say, he would end up looking completely useless in her eyes. Could his station take such a hit? He had been vying for the position of Lilith's favoured against Dagon for a long time.

Dagon had been Lucifer’s, and the only reason why they had not become Lilith’s by default was because of some unknown scandal that had occurred about the time of His fall. Since then it had been a constant, irritating battle for the coveted position. Being Lilith’s favoured meant far more scrutiny, and if you failed you were punished severely. 

But it also meant far more power. This part he was playing in the ensuring of The Plan meant that he would rise above Dagon for a good couple of decades before they could even think to try and vie for his position again. This also meant that if he failed, Lilith would have his head. He would probably have to tell her. He mentally sighed.

“There was one problem though,” he said, regaining Lilith's attention. She raised a small eyebrow at him, motioning with one delicate hand for him to continue.

“The eldest Winchester boy. He saw the whole thing,” he continued. Lilith's brow scrunched up in confusion, her nose wrinkling as she did so.

“And how exactly is that a problem?” she inquired, annoyance at being given such trivial information plain to see all over her little face.

“Because,” he said, speaking slowly, as if to a child, which well…he stopped that train of thought lest his superior become impatient and decide to simply dig through his thoughts for the answer instead of waiting for him to explain. It wouldn’t do for her to see that particular one, “I couldn’t alter his memories. He had a block on his mind that stopped all but the surface of his mind from being seen.”

“Perhaps you didn’t try hard enough? After all, I’m hoping that the challenge that finally caused the Great Azazel to fail wasn’t that of a simple infiltration of an even simpler mind?” Lilith's voice mocked in its high falsetto whilst she flicked her nails at him and steepled her fingers, a strange gesture for an eight year old. Azazel seethed inwardly at her blatant dismissal of his abilities.

“I’m telling you I did,” he said, his teeth gritted in annoyance, “Why-”

She swiftly interrupted him, throwing him down on the floor as she did so and showing the whites of her eyes.

“Don’t take that tone with me. Listen carefully. Whilst I’m not, as you believe, dismissing your abilities, I’m rather thinking of a more likely situation. Speak to me like that again and I’ll have you strung up and whipped to bloody shreds for it, is that loud and clear?”

“I meant no disrespect, message re-received loud and clear, it’ll never happen again,” he gasped from where he lay on the ground, coughing up his meat suit's own blood. Lilith rolled her eyes at his comment but released him.

“Good,” she said, smiling sweetly before she leant forward and wrapped her arms around his legs in a parody of a hug, “I’d hate to have to get rid of you so soon before the finale.”

He gave her a blood stained smirk. She looked up, eyeing him critically before releasing him and beckoning him forward.

“Follow,” she said as she turned, letting out a small giggle, and began to skip her way down the hall. Azazel looked around at the pristine, white walls of the hospital Lilith had chosen.

There were hundreds of pictures, stories and myths surrounding missing children . Many starred the Fae as the culprits. In reality, Lilith was the cause of many of these disappearances. She lured them in by the bucket load. Why, he remembered one occasion, many years ago, when she had enchanted an entire town’s population of children and youths with haunting melodies.

Rumours circulated about some of the experiments she tried, all the ingredients coming from children of one species or another.Though one myth that he could wholeheartedly say is false is that she doesn’t eat children. The flesh is like that of an adult's and worth nothing.

The real prize was their souls and their blood. There are many tales and legends of the properties of blood and many of them stem from the main truth that blood has power. It is in this vein, and with this in mind that Lilith chases after children’s blood. In her opinion, this is the most potent of them all.

She had even told him once, in a rare moment of peace, when she seemed to have forgotten their stations, that the blood of new born babies was the best, which he supposed explained why they were in a hospital. Fresh supply.

Turning a corner, they entered a large, glass, windowed room filled with cots where newborns seemed to be taken to be registered. Babies of all sizes and ethnicity filled the room. There seemed to be a sum total of thirty odd. Also standing around were two lower-level demons, dressed in the suits of nurses, which he assumed were Lilith’s ‘chefs’.

Lilith clapped her hands excitedly at the sight of the babies and bounced on the balls of her feet. One of the demons made their way forward towards Lilith and handed her a large glass with a liquid far too thick to be wine. She sipped it before turning back towards him.

“This will undoubtedly move our plans forward. What should we do? Kill the boy? Or will the others upstairs notice?” she asked, twirling her glass around in her too small hands. It should have been jarring to hear such a young voice speak so flippantly about murdering a child, and indeed one of the demons shifted uncomfortably. They must be new. He made a mental note to evaluate them later. Perhaps a trip to Allister?

Azazel then grimaced as he fully comprehended what Lilith had just said. Of course he would have to come up with something, unless...

“Set your best black-eyes on the task. They go out more than us, see more of the humans. They’ll know,” he answered, this time keeping a tight lid on his thoughts so that Lilith wouldn’t see them. He didn’t need this to be his problem.

Lilith hummed in agreement, thankfully more focused on her drink than him.

“They are more adjustable,” she mused, “OK that’s what we’ll do” she said before moving forward and hugging his legs, looking up and meeting his gaze.  


“I’m so glad you didn’t let me down. That would’ve ended badly.” She gave him a gummy smile before waving her hands at him dismissively and turning back to her glass.

He pasted a bland smile on his face before once again spreading his leathery wings and taking off, stretching out his awareness to search for his second in command. He had orders to give out

* * *

Across the states, in front of a burning house, a little boy with wide green eyes clung tightly to his little brother, letting loose small sobs that wracked his frame. It was alright for him to cry though. He had just lost his mother after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So how was it?


	2. Shit Happens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was his fault that they had had to leave the house. His fault that they moved around constantly, never stopping in one place longer than a few months. His fault that all this had happened. He knew this because that’s what his father had said.
> 
> His fault.
> 
> His fault.
> 
> His fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes! Finally finished chapter two!

Dean wondered when it had all changed. When everything had stopped being all right and had simply become wrong. He supposed that it had all started on that night, when - when his mother had died. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping in vain that it would block out the memories that would undoubtedly follow the thought. He had tried so hard to forget what he had seen, but his father always encouraged him not to.

“Focus Dean,” he would say. “You need to focus or we won’t ever nail this sonofabitch. Now, tell me what you see.”

Maybe it was because of this that he had constantly over-analysed that night. Every free moment after the incident was spent going over what he could remember, and what he could have missed, all at his father’s behest. He had gone over what had occurred in excruciating detail, picking at each piece of information, hoping that something would give him a clue as to what he had witnessed that night. Apart from the obvious, of course.

The cold, mocking stare of hate-filled eyes taunted him, hounding his every waking step. He remembered wanting to cry for help, wanting to shout and scream, but the words seemed to get stuck in his throat just before he could say them, his mouth letting out nothing but a whimper into that hateful room.

He remembered the cold feeling that had started in his head, a bucket of icy water that had slowly traversed across and down his body, leaving an uncomfortable feeling of pins and needles in its wake. 

And he remembered his brother being shoved into his arms, remembered running faster than he ever had before, the cool wind of the night air hitting his face as he broke free from the house.

He remembered turning and watching it all go up in smoke. 

He secretly admitted it to himself now, that even without his father telling him to do so, that night would still be the only thing he saw when he closed his eyes, a scene that played over and over again in his mind’s eye. He now knew why he always saw her body twisted in a grotesque shape as she screamed, and screamed, and screamed. It was because all of it, her death, what had happened to Sammy, was his fault.

If only he had spoken up. If only he had said something. Then they wouldn’t be in this dark place, left behind by the departure of his father’s sun.

Days after the event, all that he could do was sit numbly in shock. That man had just…disappeared. His mother’s death hadn’t quite sunk in yet; the images didn’t yet haunt him. He hadn’t understood back then why his father had kept leaving, coming back smelling of acrid sweat and alcohol.

He was pulled from his day-care and was taken to a scary lady’s house. She had kept throwing around big words like “traumatic”, and “psychiatric”, to which his dad would sit looking distressed about.

Every morning, after his Dad had dropped him off at her house, she would lead him to a brightly lit room, with walls painted yellow and large windows thrown open to let in the soft breeze. The floor was covered in a large blue rug, through which he had vivid memories of dragging his knees too quickly, resulting in carpet burns. Placed around the room were three brightly coloured plastic chairs, which were almost as uncomfortable as sitting on the hard floor.

The lady would always tell him to take a seat on the blue rug, where he would then be surrounded by toys that she hastily scattered around him from one of the many cupboards lining the wall. The lady, “My name’s Hannah Johnson but you can just call me Ms J, kay, sweetheart?” would then settle herself onto one of the tiny plastic chairs, take out a notebook and pen, and begin asking a long series of questions, followed by an even longer lecture.

She talked about how he had seen some bad things. How nothing that had happened was his fault, how she wanted to help him get better. How it would get better. How she knew that everything was really scary right now, but that ‘everything will change for the best, I promise hun’.

One day, he was drawing on some paper she had given him, completing an exercise she had assigned. He was good with exercises. She had told him to express how he had felt that night on the paper, to draw what he had seen and how it had made him feel. He had readily agreed.

He hadn’t known then that what he had seen was impossible and so he happily went at it, sketching out the dead, cold eyes he had seen. He had thought, then, that this was a perfect way to breach the topic of his mother’s killer, that the only reason why the lady hadn’t already asked him was because it wasn’t polite to do so and that she was waiting for him to start the conversation.

He had known, objectively, that his mom had been murdered, but the thought that she wasn’t coming back, that she couldn’t come back, was an alien idea to him. He didn’t know what death was, what it meant, so out of the whole ordeal, the thing that had scared him, that had actually terrified him, had been the man. And now, now was his opportunity to tell the lady all about him.

So he did. He had started off by telling her about how his mummy had been pinned to the celling, dripping blood. Then he went on to explain how all around her there had been bad fire that made her scream and sound funny. Finally he broached the subject of the yellow eyed man. Once he had finished there had just been silence.

Then the lady had let out a small shocked gasp and, standing up quickly, fled the room. He could hear muffled voices on the other side of the wall, but ignored them in favour of adding some finishing touches to his picture. She was probably talking to the cops. He grinned. Maybe they would let him be a part of one of their cool shows.

When the lady had finally come back she wasn’t alone. Next to her was his Dad, all sweaty and tired looking, with big circles under his eyes. He hadn’t at the time understood what the lady was saying, but now he had the luxury of knowing. She was after all the first person in a long line of many others to call him crazy. You never forget your first.

His Dad had grabbed his arm and with a gruff “Come on Dean,” had dragged him out of the house and into the car. He spent the entirety of the ride babbling on about all of the things he had told the lady about the man with the eyes and how “Wasn’t it weird Dad? He just disappeared!”

He didn’t notice how frowny his dads face had gotten.

He didn’t notice how his dad had clenched his hands and gritted his teeth.

He did notice how silent he was being though. As they were walking to the motel, he reached out to poke his dad’s arm, to ask him what was wrong. 

“Don’t touch me Dean,” his Dad had snapped before moving out of the way of his finger and fiddling with the door. He had stared up at his Dad, perplexed, but he wasn’t given any time to react before he was pushed roughly through the door of the now unlocked motel room.

His Dad sat down on one of the beds and put his head in his hands. He had slowly shuffled forward, unsure of what his father was doing, but wanting to help regardless, only to freeze in place once his dad had lifted his head to look at him. The look on his face was…it was terrifying. It was all twisted up in fury, eyes red and wet with unshed tears. He looked livid, almost inhuman with rage. Dean had felt himself taking a step back.

“Why didn’t you tell me Dean?” he had growled out, voice low and gravelly.

“Dad, I don’t know-”

“Goddamnit Dean! Don’t make excuses! Why didn’t you tell me, huh? You-you could have stopped it! I would have heard you shouting and come running and I would’ve done something! I-I don’t know what, but I certainly wouldn’t have let that sonofabitch kill her!”

Dean had flinched back at his Dad’s tone of voice, confusion evident on his features. He didn’t understand what his Dad was talking about. What did he mean? He asked as much. His Dad exploded.

“Don’t-don’t give me that shit! Mary died and it was all your fault! Oh god, Mary died! She’s dead and you-you could’ve stopped it! Why didn’t you tell me!” his father screamed, burying his head back into his hands. 

“She’s never coming back and it’s all your fault! Just-just stay away from me for a bit, ok? Jesus I need to get out of here.” And with one final look at Dean, his Dad had left the room.

He had barely noticed, the words said by his father had just kept playing over and over again in his head. “Why didn’t you tell me Dean? She’s never coming back and it’s all your fault.” 

His mom wasn’t coming back, and it was his fault? If his Dad had said it, then it must be true, right? His mom wasn’t coming back and it was his fault, his mom wasn’t coming- tears gathered in his eyes, breaths coming in short pants as the litany played over and over again in his mind. His mom wasn’t coming back and it was his fault his-  


_faulthisfaulthisfaultnowhywasntshecomingnonononitwashisfaulthisfault_ -

His fault. His fault. All of it was his fault. All of it?

My fault.

When his Dad had returned, he had smelt strongly of alcohol. He had picked up Sammy from the hospital, where he had been at a check up, on the way back to the motel.  


Dean had opened his mouth as if to say something, but quickly shut it. His Dad wasn’t even looking at him. The room was filled with a stifling silence, a silence that had seemed to spread into Dean himself. For the rest of the evening, he had been unable to shape any of his thoughts into words.

He had spent that night staring up at the ceiling, not able to find a way to get to sleep. They left Lawrence, Kansas the next morning. 

He hadn’t spoken for a while after that. He hadn’t wanted to. He had been scared. Scared that if he’d start to speak, everything would just come pouring out in great torrents of words. Or he would open his mouth and find that he couldn’t say anything at all. His father had barely noticed, hyper- focused as he was on the thing that made him leave Dean alone with Sammy for days on end.

It hadn’t mattered though, if he didn’t speak. His father had told him that his mom had died because of him. When he had seen the strange man, he should’ve called for help. Not stood staring there, a silent spectator to the scene he had witnessed. If he had only called out then, his mom wouldn’t have been dragged up to the ceiling, wouldn’t have been burned. It was all his fault. It was his fault that a then six-month-old Sammy would never know his mummy. It was his fault that they had had to leave the house. His fault that they moved around constantly, never stopping in one place longer than a few months. His fault that all of this had happened. He knew this because that’s what his father had said.

His fault.

His fault.

His fault. 

That had brought him here, sobbing into his pillow to muffle his cries so that he wouldn’t wake up Sammy, who was curled into a small ball next to him. His dad was still out. It had been six years since that night, that horrid, horrid night. He pushed himself closer to his little brother. Maybe the images would stop haunting him long enough for him to catch a few hours of sleep. He sighed. Maybe.

* * *

His Dad had been in and out of the motel for weeks now, trying to catch the latest ‘Big Bad Thing’ that was targeting the civilians. In this case, it was doing something to children, causing them all to fall into comas. Normally Dean would be his Dad’s backup on a hunt, but this time he had been told to stay behind. He wondered why. Maybe Dad had been scared that the monster would go after him next if he were also hunting it. A warm feeling spread through his chest at the thought.

As the years had gone by, Dean had noticed how distanced he was becoming from his Dad. He quietly admitted to himself that it hurt sometimes to be so overlooked in his Dad’s affections. He knew though that his Dad was very busy hunting down the Yellow-eyed figure he had seen the night mom had-

He stopped that train of thought with a small shake of his head, as if trying to clear it. His dad was just busy. And he didn’t need the attention, he didn’t! It was just that sometimes, sometimes he couldn’t help but feel that his Dad had forgotten about him. He knew he was just being silly but, in the privacy of his mind, he couldn’t help but wonder if that was the case.

But maybe this was proof that that wasn’t the case. He grinned quietly to himself before making his way over to Sammy. Sammy - who looked out of his mind with boredom.  


“Deeeaaaann,” he whined, “I want to do something fun!” He pouted at Dean to emphasise his statement, and Dean felt his smile grow wider.

“Well, gee Sammy, I don’t know man,” he teased. He had gradually begun to talk again, although it was still an effort for him to do so around adults. He was still quiet more often than not, but Sammy needed him, needed him to be there for him, and so he had forced himself to outgrow it - proving his father right in thinking that it was just a phase.  


“Yeah you do! You know everything Dean!” he declared boldly, nodding his head up and down for emphasis, causing his hair to flop across his face.

“Well, if you put it that way, I guess we could go to the arcade. But only if you want to,” he smirked down at his little brother, who had begun to vibrate with excitement. Sam immediately leapt up and began babbling excitedly as Dean went and found his brother’s shoes, helping him to put them on and tying the laces. 

His brother was practically buzzing and Dean could feel himself let out a small laugh at his actions. His brother, no matter how demanding, could always bring a smile to his face. He grabbed the key to the motel room and headed to the door where Sam was already waiting for him. He grabbed Dean’s hand and practically dragged him out of the building. Dean pulled back a little to lock the door, before letting his little brother lead him forward. He was talking in that quick manner of his, non-stop chatter with only a few pauses here and there for breath.

Dean remembered when Sam had been younger and had had trouble pronouncing certain letters. This hadn’t deterred him whatsoever though. Instead he would just leave the word out altogether. This had led him to not only speaking very fast, but also seemingly in riddles, making it nigh impossible to understand him, something that Dean had then perfected into an Art Form, but that other people had obviously struggled with.

He remembered how one time he had even been taken out of class and taken to a very flustered teacher’s class. There he had been asked to translate what his brother had been trying to say. A sharp tug pulled him out of his thoughts. He looked down at Sammy, who was whining for him to hurry up. He let loose another laugh and let himself be lead.

* * *

Dean let himself back into the motel room, stepping out of the cold night air and into the grotty warmth. He had put his brother to sleep after their trip to the arcade, and then had gone out once again. He had needed some space, some air to breathe, and had found himself at the arcade once more. After he had arrived there, he had stayed for longer than he had meant to, but it had been worth it. As much as he loved his little brother, he needed a break every now and again, a little bit of time for himself.

As he stepped further into the room, he noticed that something felt wrong. It was a gut instinct. The hair on his arms and legs rose up as his skin broke out into goose bumps. He shivered. Creeping forward, he clumsily searched for the gun that they kept under the pillows of the old sofa in case of an emergency. He grabbed at it and pulled it out, flicking off the safety.

He eased his way forward on silent feet, making his way towards the closed door of his brothers room, which he slowly opened. And then he froze. There, leaning over his baby brother, was a dark figure. The air around the thing looked as if it had been sucked into some sort of vacuum, deep in space, and not even a shimmer of light surrounded it. There was a sense of absolute wrongness coming off it. It seemed to be absorbing a silvery, white vapour that was coming off his brother, who was lying deathly still.

Dean’s hands shook in fear as he raised his shotgun, the intensity of his shaking leading to him accidentally knocking his elbow against the wooden door as he did so. The sound echoed through the room and the thing snapped its head up and swung towards him.

Before he knew what was happening, Dean felt himself get thrown backwards and away from the monster. He looked up to see his father, pointing his shotgun at the thing, eyes cold and hard in a face set like stone, looking like some sort of avenging angel from tales of old. The creature gave a banshee-like-screech before diving out of the open window and out of reach.

Silence filled the room as his Dad immediately went to go and check on Sammy. Sammy, who hadn’t even been woken up by the noise, and who had kept on sleeping, oblivious to the events that had just occurred.

His dad met his gaze, and Dean froze at what he saw there. An expression of pure rage and fury twisted his face. Rage that Dean had seen matched only by that of the Incident all those years ago.

Without warning, his Dad dropped his gun and grabbed Dean by his collar, choking him as he got dragged out of the bedroom, the door shutting behind him.

“What do you think you were doing?” he snarled, slamming Dean hard against the motel room wall. Dean could feel the unevenness of it on his back, places where the paint was chipped or peeling and risen with damp. He struggled against his Dad’s hands but confusion made him weak.

“Dad I didn’t mean to! I don’t know what happ-” he started before he was brutally cut off by his dad shoving him down and onto the floor. His head bounced as it hit the ground and Dean saw stars behind his eyes.

“I don’t want to hear it,” his dad growled. Dean inhaled the smell of the musty carpet as his face was shoved down by a large hand on the back of his aching head. His thoughts were filled with confusion and worked sluggishly, tainted by the pounding headache that had already formed. It took him too long to process what was happening, and by the time he did, he could do nothing about it.

A rustling sound behind him was the only warning he got before he felt the unmistakable feeling of a belt hitting his back. Pain blossomed across his skin and he bit back a cry, his mind finally comprehending what was happening to him. His father, his Dad, was beating him.

“Dad! P-p-please! S-s-stop!” he cried out as he struggled to break free from his father’s unforgiving grip, fighting with everything he had.

“Shut up,” was his father’s reply, the words punctuated by a harsh slap to the side of his face. Dean could taste blood from where he had cut his cheek on his own teeth from the force of the blow.

“This wouldn’t be happening if you had just done your job! First Mary and now your brother! God, it’s always your fault isn’t it? You’re useless!” his father sneered down at him.  
By this time, Dean’s back was on fire, every panted breath sending waves of pain spreading across his body. He could feel warmth soaking through his shredded shirt, and tears poured down his face. He let out a small whimper as his Dad finally stopped, breathing heavily as he walked a little ways back from where Dean continued to lay unmoving on the ground.

“Get up,” his father snapped. Dean didn’t move. He couldn’t.

“Get up,” his father said again, this time preparing to drag Dean up off the floor. 

Dean, quickly seeing that the lesser of two evils would be to risk the pain of standing upright (rather than getting beaten further), hurriedly tried to pull himself up to his feet. It sent spasms of pain through his body, causing his vision to dance with black spots, and for him to almost fall down and end up on the floor again.

His father looked at him - the anger still evident on his face. Lips curling in disgust, his dad told him to clean up as he turned to leave, slamming the motel front door as he did so. 

Dean stood there for a while, as if in a daze. His mind had gone into shock. He was unable to process, to fathom what had just happened to him. He felt sick. His Dad, his own father had done this to him. He shook heavily, each little bit of movement sending new bursts of pain across his body. He moved to the bathroom, each step an agony. By the time he got there, nausea hung heavy in his stomach, and he threw up a little in his mouth. He shakily got the med kit down from the cupboard, flinching all the while as it pulled on his wounds.

He slowly lowered himself onto the toilet lid, placing the kit on his lap, and seemed to just shut down. The words his dad had shouted brought to the forefront of his mind all of the doubts and insecurities he had. And there it was again.

His fault. 

Dean shuddered. His Dad, no, he wasn’t his Dad anymore. John, John had done this to him. Dean bit his lip. He could leave. Just walk out the door, injured as he was, to the front desk and ask for the police. But…but what if they didn’t believe him.

No, no they definitely would. The problem would be-he swallowed. The real problem would be that he and Sammy would be split up. Could he handle that? Would it be selfish of him not to? Selfish of him to do so?

After all, Sammy was fine. John hadn’t touched Sammy. Maybe he never would, and then Sammy would grow up and live a happy apple-pie life without knowing what his daddy was. That his daddy was bad. Dean nodded to himself. That could work. And if John ever so much as laid a finger on his brother then they would both be out of there. Yes. That’s what he would do. He allowed his lips to curl themselves up into a small half-smile before he carefully began to tend to his wounds.

This, Dean later noted, was the day that he had stopped being his father’s son and had become his tool instead. The good little solider boy in John’s single-minded quest to hunt all of those things that went bump in the night. But it was fine as long as Sam was all right.

After all, he would do anything, absolutely anything, for his little brother.

* * *

At twelve, Dean found that he could easily pass himself off as older than he was. Scars had begun to accumulate, littering his body. A lucky strike from a werewolf’s claws, a mad spirt sending him flying into the corner of a fireplace. These only served to confirm the idea that he was older than he appeared.

He had taken to cutting his hair as short as he could go without buzzing it, after a lucky vamp had gotten past his father and used him as a human shield, hand buried in blonde curls to keep him still. When his father had finally dispatched the thing, Dean had resolved to getting rid of any advantage the creatures of the night might be able to get from him by eliminating another of his weaknesses. 

( _It definitely wasn’t because of how, immediately after John had killed the vampire, he had grabbed Dean’s hair in an even tighter grip and yanked him down onto the ground, before dealing out his ‘punishment’ for letting the vamp get the better of him, right there on the floor next to the rapidly cooling, headless body. No, it wasn’t because of that_ ).

He had kept it that way ever since. His body hadn’t filled out much, giving him a gangly sort of appearance that did him little favour at school. Rigorous hunting training had left him with muscles that didn’t quite know where to go, only adding to the bizarreness of his appearance. This, though, was largely overshadowed by bruises.

John was careful not to leave any in recognisable places where adults could see them, but the monsters they went after hardly paid him the same courtesy. He often arrived, ready for class, with a split lip or ugly green and blue bruises marring his face.

He remembered appearing once with two black eyes that had caused such a fuss amongst the teachers that John had to abandon his hunt to move them across the state before CPS arrived. The beating he had gotten from that had put him out of commission for days. The guilt he felt from hearing that two civilians died until another hunter came in to neutralise the threat, was worse.

In hunts, John either used him as bait or treated him like hired muscle, telling him exactly what to do at all moments and expecting Dean to follow all of his orders to the letter, or face the consequences. When John said jump, woe betide any who didn’t immediately do so.

Any original idea Dean had was immediately dismissed, and he had long since given up trying to voice his opinions. Instead, he was working on subtly inserting the better options into conversations, and trying to manipulate John into thinking that it had been his idea all along.

Contrary to what John said and believed, Dean did know his stuff.

Dean had often been forced to do research by John, who ironically thought that it was beneath him, bequeathing it to him to do so.

He didn’t know when it had changed; when it had stopped being a chore and something like a reward. He enjoyed it, something small just for him. When he had shyly, in a late night call to Bobby about an unrecognisable monster his dad had been hunting that needed identifying, brought up how much he enjoyed learning, Bobby had responded by sending numerous books that he labelled ‘need to know’ and ‘vitally important’ to John, who had responded, of course, by pawning them off onto Dean. Perfect.

There were books on Latin, Hebrew, and other ancient languages, filled with mythological and ‘real’ figures. There were notes scribbled in the margins, old post-its stuck inside. Highlighted phrases, dog-eared corners, battered loose sheaths of paper filled with added information gathered from other hunters. Dean always felt a small curl of excitement when he could add something new, something previously unknown. He felt like he was making a difference.

John had also foisted his own journal off to Dean. He didn’t mind. The crazed ramblings of a man lost to grief and anger soon smoothed out into his clean and precise handwriting, filling the journal with references to information in his books, each detail neatly and methodically written out.

He enjoyed learning the different languages, perfecting his accents until he could pronounce each word as correctly as possible. Each time he got something right, his body practically buzzed in excitement. He loved it so much that he had even smuggled in a ‘guide to French and Spanish.’

Dean kept all of his books hidden at the bottom of his duffel bag, including his all-time favourite Vonnegut that he’d nicked from a local library on one of their hunts.  
He had been bored in the dank motel room, forced to listen to Sammy’s constant nagging to go to the library. Eventually he just couldn’t put up with the whining anymore and took him there. 

It had been a short walk down the streets - the motel they were staying in was more high-end compared to what they were used to, and it was closer to the centre of the small town. The library was a tall double story building surrounded by green lawns filled with studying students. It looked, Dean observed, very much like the college campuses always shown in movies.

Once they arrived, Sam quickly dragged him inside before instantly immersing himself in the kid’s section and pulling out a Tom Gates book from the shelf, leaving Dean to wonder along aimlessly by himself.

Although he’d never admit it to anyone, Dean was impressed by the sheer size of the library. It was oddly calming, despite its size. He felt tension bleed from his shoulders as he found himself walking down an aisle completely alone, surrounded by books.

Soon he was reading the spines of different books, big and small, until he came across one called Slaughterhouse-five. 

He had at first thought that the book would be one of those comics, filled with gory pictures, but found, to his surprise, that it was instead an actual novel. Figuring that he would be waiting there for a long time, he opened it and began to read, soon finding himself absolutely ensnared in the story line.

That was, until it was time to go.

During the middle of his impromptu reading session, he had gotten a call from John demanding to know where they were.

He had begun to panic at his father’s hostile tone and had quickly gone running off to find his brother. Sammy had been extremely reluctant to go, and had caused a fuss before Dean managed to get him out, setting his heels in and dragging his feet the whole way back.

Once at the motel room, Dean had taken one look at John’s stony face and known he was in for it. That was at about the time he noticed he still had the book in his hand, and quickly slipped it under his shirt.

Whilst Sammy hugged John, Dean swiftly stuffed the book into his bag.

The hit he had gotten afterwards was bad, re-splitting a lip that didn’t need to be hidden because of the holidays, but after John had gone to sleep and Dean had continued to read, he knew it had been worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh i think just one more chapter to go!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At fifteen, Dean was quite happy with the classification he had been given as the ‘dumb one.’ In fact, he had worked extremely hard to cultivate that image for himself. Being thought of as the dumb grunt, the good little soldier, meant that no one ever bothered to _look_. He’d learnt to play the part so well that the mask was like a second skin to him, easy to slip on and off.
> 
> Dean discovers some stuff and we find out more about what the Yellow Eyed Demon did to Sam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is. Thanks to my lovely beta [TinyAncientDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinyAncientDragon) for sorting out my screwed up tenses!

At fifteen, Dean was quite happy with the classification he had been given as the ‘dumb one.’ In fact, he had worked extremely hard to cultivate that image for himself. Being thought of as the dumb grunt, the good little soldier, meant that no one ever bothered to _look_. He’d learnt to play the part so well that the mask was like a second skin to him, easy to slip on and off.

From this, he saw how people reacted differently to him – saw how they would interact with him based on how they saw him, how they perceived him. Perception, after all, was key.

It was around this time that he had been sent a small, carefully bound book from Bobby, who regularly kept in contact with him and his brother and called them when he could.  
The book itself was plain, but what it contained… _Oh_ , but what it had inside.

Knowledge and deception. Clever tricks and wit. Lies. Oh so many cleverly crafted lies. It was a book of Norse Myths, but not just any collection of myths. No, these were those centered on the god of chaos. Of trickery and deceit. Loki. The book contained stories from multiple pre-established books as well as its own retellings.

There, within its pages, Dean saw how it was possible to take down those who abused the power they held, or how to demolish a nation of warriors with an ancient, cruel king. It was perfect, for he had his own monsters that could not be slain with a simple sword nor a feat of mighty strength. No, he would need his mind to do that.

He made time to go over and over the book, and often made small notes in it, analysing each detail. It might have been just a collection of fictional stories, but in each one there was a lesson to be learnt, and he...he was going to learn them all.

The first thing was to not let others see what he was, or rather, who he was. To not let them see how he felt, how he thought or saw the world around him. If they didn’t know him, they couldn’t use him. And so he began to craft different identities, and then practised using them. And he had oh so many perfect opportunities to do so.

He and Sammy often moved schools, and so he had ample opportunity to rewrite himself. He started off with only small adjustments, sticking mostly to alterations in outfits and hobbies, and then going on to bigger and bigger changes.

This went on for a while, and Dean had already decided not to tell his brother about it, well, at least not anytime soon, but that soon changed.

* * *

“Dean?” Sam’s voice came from behind a heavy schoolbook propped up by a stack of study guides, the top of his head barely visible.

“Yuh huh?” Dean said, briefly looking up from his computer before going back to what he was working on.

“Dean,” Sam tried again.

“Mmm?”

“Dean!”

This time Dean looked up fully.

“What can I do for you, kiddo?”

His brother crossed his arms and pouted, but said nothing. Dean sighed, and then turned back to his computer, saved the notes he had made on his next possible identity, and closed the machine. Then he waited.

It was a game of silence, to see who would speak first. 

He grinned at his brother, who was busy fighting his warring desires. To tell Dean whatever it was he wanted to say, or make Dean wait as a punishment for ignoring him.  
The need to speak won out, and Sam was practically vibrating as he spoke.

“So in class I was talking with Lesley - you remember Lesley right? I told you about her, she’s the one who wore the red hat on green hat day to stick it to the man.”

“Anyways, I was talking to Lesley, when she mentioned how she had an older brother who was in your class- I think his name was Harry, or was it Harvey? Whatever- and _he_ said that he was talking to you the other day, which isn’t that important but wait. So when Lesley was telling me about this, she mentioned you, only she didn’t. She was talking and-and-” 

“Ok ok, jeez, Sammy take a breath!” Dean rushed in before his brother could carry on. Sammy blinked owlishly at him before taking a comically large breath and continuing just as fast.

“- she was talking about you, only she wasn’t talking about _you_. Or maybe she was but she wasn’t using your name. Wait, let me go back a bit. So she said that her brother was talking to this person earlier who was leader of the Drama club and I didn’t know why I would care about this person but I listened anyways and she was half way through her story before she said-and I quote-“your brother” the head of the drama club.”

“And I was like, no, I don’t have a brother who is in the drama club and to be honest my brother hates drama and she said that yeah you do and how do I not even know my own brother’s hobbies and I-I”

Here he took another breath and ploughed on before Dean could say anything.

“I - so I stopped because maybe you had a reason for this and then I was thinking it over and I realised that you always look or act differently at school-and-”

“ - and all this time I thought that maybe you were just style hopping or something but now I’m thinking there’s something more? There is, isn’t there?” His brother rushed out before looking down at the ground.

Dean looked at his brother, slightly shocked at the speed of his little speech, and then his brain finally caught up with what Sam had said. Ah. Dean gestured to the small motel table he was sitting at, indicating that Sam take a seat next to him. 

“I had wondered when you were going to bring it up.” 

Now, how was he going to explain? He didn’t want to tell his brother everything, not because he didn’t trust Sam, but because the less he knew, the less he might accidentally let slip.

“I’m planning something - I can’t tell you what so don’t ask - but to complete it, I need to be able to lie; to create a person perfectly from scratch and play as- no, _be_ them, for an unspecified amount of time, whilst convincing everyone of my authenticity.” 

“To do that, I have to practise. I’ve started off small and was going to work my way up to more elaborate characters.” He kept his voice calm and steady as he explained, trying to keep his nerves out of his voice as he did so.

“I was planning on telling you later, but…” His voice trailed off and he chanced a small glance at his brother’s face, trying to see what he was thinking. ‘Please don’t be mad,’ he silently begged.

Sammy was chewing his lip and seemed to be lost in thought, brow furrowed and nose scrunched up.

“So you’re like Batman?” 

Dean let out a startled laugh that was more relief than anything else. He grinned at his brother, who returned it with his own cheeky smirk.

“Batman, huh?”

“Yeah! He has two identities. But you’re gonna be even cooler ‘cause you’ll have loads,” Sam’s arms flailed around as he spoke and Dean couldn’t help but pull him into a small hug.

“Thanks squirt.” 

They sat in contented silence for a bit, until Sam began to vibrate with excitement again.

“Now that I know…does this mean that you’ll go full out?”

Dean nodded his head and Sam returned it solemnly, shaggy hair flopping about, before he scampered off to finish his work. Dean smiled at the back of Sam’s head, before turning back to his computer and continuing his own work on a possible character. Hmm, what to call them? Maybe…

_Caroline_

* * *

With Sammy’s compliance, Dean now had the perfect chance to completely and utterly transform himself into someone else.

John raced across the whole of Northern America, chasing monster after monster in his endless pursuit of evil. This left him little time for his sons, and so it fell to Dean to secure them schooling, meaning he was the one to add their names to each application. 

He had, through Bobby, been given a few hunter contacts, and it was with this that he had been introduced to a genius-level hacker going by the name of Ash.

Surprisingly, they had struck-up a small friendship, and when Dean had tentatively broached the topic of his schooling, namely the persona he wanted to play as at school, Ash had immediately jumped at the chance to teach Dean how to create his fake identity, in exchange for some of the notes Dean had compiled about all the fuglies John had come across. 

The files didn’t need to be perfect or extremely watertight. No one cared about who was coming into the school, and background checks were no more than a cursory glance.  
Ash gave Dean the basics, and soon he was ready to employ them.

As he was moved from school to school, he often let small aspects of his true self slip past his masks, and into his characters. He was able to build upon multiple personas by letting out small aspects of his personality. After all, wasn’t it said by all of the great con artists of the world? The best lies were ones based on truth.

He taught himself to bend other’s perceptions of him, to play off of their expectations, and thereby use them for his and his brother’s gain. Travelling as far and wide as he did, over multiple states, cities and small towns, he had ample opportunity to practise those skills. 

He named and catalogued each persona, paying careful attention to them and filling each file with tiny details. After all, as one of his art teachers had said, the more seemingly insignificant details, the more realistic the finished product.

He had sweet, shy Nate who was scared of talking to large crowds, and bubbly Tom, who could seldom do anything but.

Strong Adam, who spent his days on the track, and stern Noah, who spent his in the large, on campus library. 

And sometimes, when he knew that John would take especially long, he became clever Charlotte, who knew the answer to every question, or maybe Violet, who knew next to nothing.

Brave Meredith, who was given a special commendation for breaking up a fight peacefully, and Paulina, who would usually be the one to start them.

Studious James, class clown Derrick, popular Liam, slutty Garth, cold Alice, naïve Sophie, sporty Jana. It went on and on.

They were all needed after all, because he was planning… planning something big, something that couldn’t afford even the smallest margin for error.

He was slowly but surely working his way towards a goal. Every school called for a new persona, an entirely different identity. 

Well, an entirely different identity with one constant truth woven into each. That he would do anything for his brother. No matter the person he played, they always loved Sam unconditionally, and they always made sure Sam knew it.

* * *

The motel they were currently staying in was ten minutes away from the main town. Every day after school, Dean would take his brother to the library, and once they had completed their homework, they would spend hours perusing the books.

After a while, they had developed a sort of game amongst themselves. They would take turns choosing books for the other to read. Across countless libraries, they spent their time reading a variety of novels that the other had chosen. 

Biographies, to children’s stories, to a myriad of fantasies, followed by dramas, a few romances, and, if they were in the right mood for it, thrillers. Here, they could stay in peace, devouring book after book. Here they were just another pair of readers looking to get their hands on a new story. 

And for Dean, at the library, surrounded by nothing but books and the presence of his brother, he didn’t need to pretend to be anything he wasn’t. He could drop all personas and emerge fully from whatever character he was currently playing as. He was home.

Of course, as soon as he could, Dean hunted down all of the Vonnegut books he could get his hands on, and read them to his brother, wanting the other to enjoy them as much as he did. 

His little brother didn’t always fully understand certain things, for although he was a genius, a true little Einstein, he wasn’t always as knowledgeable about the ‘life aspect’. But that wasn’t what it was all about though. No, it was that they read _together_.

After a long school day and a distinct lack of John, they were quietly enjoying one of their little sessions, ensconced in a small alcove, deep inside one of the larger libraries they had visited, when his brother spoke up.

“Dean?” he started in a small voice, causing his brother to look up from ‘The Chrysalids’, a book chosen by Sam for Dean to read.

Dean blinked up at him, looking a little startled at the interruption. They didn’t often speak during their little sessions, save to clarify things they didn’t understand, or rant about the stupidity of certain characters.

“Yeah?”

His brother bit his lip slightly, and seemed to be searching for the right words to use. Dean waited silently, not hurrying him. He knew that sometimes his brother’s mind worked too fast for his mouth.

“Dean, I was-well-I was just wondering what-well...” He took a deep breath, before squaring his jaw and rushing it out all in one go.

“It’s about dad. Only I noticed you don’t call him that anymore, but that’s besides the point. Or maybe it is a part of it.”

“Dad does something to you. I’ve seen it okay? You get all these bruises… and don’t give me that bullshit of it being from the hunt! I know there’s something wrong and-and, it’s just-”

He broke off again but he didn’t need to continue.

Dean watched him with wide eyes, wondering what else his brother had figured out. Did he know about…? No. He broke off that thought. Sam wouldn’t know. 

He swallowed slightly, running his hands through carton-dyed hair, the trademark of his current persona, trying to come up with a way to respond.

His brother’s eyes narrowed, as if he could smell the bullshit Dean was trying to come up with, and seemed to gear himself up, readying for an argument. Dean sighed.

“Yeah-yeah,” He blew out a small breath, “yeah I’ll tell you. But it’s not as bad as you think. John and I, we just have a complicated relationship ‘s’all.” That seemed to be the wrong thing to say.

“A complicated relationship!” his brother exploded.

“England and France had a _complicated relationship_ , Queen Elizabeth and Mary Queen of Scots had a _complicated relationship_ , Emperor fucking Nero and his fucking wife Octavia had a _complicated relationship_! And, Dean, how did that turn out for them, huh? Its abuse Dean, and I-I-”

Dean cut him off before he could get any louder, grabbing his arms and pulling him closer. He was a bit shocked that his brother was swearing; he’d never heard him do that before. 

“Listen Sam-no listen! It’s not like that, I swear!”

“Stop lying to me! It’s exactly like that and you know it! Stop protecting me. I don’t need it! Just tell me what he’s doing!”

Dean felt a curl of anger slowly ignite in his belly. Didn’t his brother, for all of his genius, see that he needed to be protected? He gritted his teeth.

“Fine! John beats me and has been doing so for the past whoever knows how long! Is that what you wanted to hear? That he kicks and hits the shit out of me on a daily basis? Is that what you wanted to know, huh? That your big brother is some weak-ass loser who can’t even stand up for himself!”

Dean could see tears making their way down his brother’s cheeks and, to his surprise, could feel some on his own. There was silence in the room, filled only by the sound of his own harsh breathing, loud in his ears.

His brother suddenly flung himself across the pillows and rammed into his side.

“Don’t say that Dean,” Sam whispered fiercely, “don’t say that. You’re super brave! I mean you go out, of your own free will, and kick serious monster butt, and-and you always make the time to be with me, always make sure we have food on the table! Hell, you’ve been the one raising me all this time!” 

His brother’s arms were tight around his middle, and Dean found himself returning the hug with equal fervour.

They sat there quietly for some time, wrapped up in each other’s arms, Dean slowly stroking his brother’s back in reassurance, before Sam broke the silence again.

“You do all of these things for me, and this is how he repays you. How _dare_ he do this.’ His brother looked up at him, eyes wide with a sudden thought, ‘you know you don’t deserve it right? You know that, don’t you Dean?”

Dean slowly nodded his head. He did know that John shouldn’t treat him this way, but on the matter of whether or not he deserved it? That in his mind was debatable.

His brother’s arms tightened around him, as if he could sense the direction of his thoughts, and scowled up at Dean.

“You don’t!”

Dean sighed.

“Sammy, you don’t understand. It-it’s my fault that mom died and-”

This time it was Sam who cut him off.

“There’s nothing for me to understand. You’re a kid, Dean. You were even more of a kid when whatever happened to mom happened! For dad, no, _John_ to treat you like this is - it’s inexcusable!”

Dean felt a wave of warmth flow through him at the sincerity he could see in his brother’s face. Sam was looking up at him solemnly from behind his mop of dark hair, as if daring him to disagree. He lifted up his hands in surrender, letting loose a soft laugh. Sam nodded sharply at this in satisfaction, before his face twisted into a frown.

“Good, now that we’ve gotten that sorted out, we can move on to our next topic. Namely what to do with _John_.” He spat out the name with such disgust that for a second, Dean thought that he might have misheard it, that Sam was talking about some other poor bastard.

It took a moment for his thoughts to catch up with what his brother had said, and when they did, his eyes widened in surprise, which were quickly followed by a look of horror.

“No! Sammy you gotta promise me that you won’t tell anyone. Don’t give me that look! This is important, okay? You can’t let anyone know about this, not even Uncle Bobby.”

“But Dean-”

“No! You’ve gotta promise me Sam. Promise me you won’t.”

“Why Dean? You can’t let him get away with this! You can’t!”

“Because we’ll be separated!” Dean finally exploded. Sam watched him, speechless, as Dean looked down at his hands before continuing in a more subdued tone.

“They’ll call CSS, and then what Sam? We’ll be separated. Shipped off to different places. And if that happens, I-I won’t be able to protect you Sam.” He kept his eyes down on his hands and hoped that he wouldn’t ask what Dean could possibly be protecting him from. 

He was lucky. His brother simply nodded once, sadness on his face, whether from the truth he had gotten out of his brother, or about the truth he had to know Dean was still holding back. 

But he said nothing as he shuffled forward again and tucked himself close to his brother.

“Okay. I won’t say anything, I promise. But when this is all over, I’ll kick his butt. You won’t stop me,” he said quietly into Dean’s shoulder and Dean felt a small smile return to his face.

“Kay Sammy. I won’t interfere. Promise.”

After a while, silence had returned to the library, and judging by the soft, steady rise and fall of Sam’s chest, he had fallen asleep.

Dean looked down at his brother’s head and thought about the truth he had kept from him. The reason why Sam had to be protected. The reason why John could never be anything less than pleased by his brother. Why all of his ire could only be directed at Dean. Why they just couldn’t simply escape.

Because if they did get taken away, if the blood protection spell Dean had cast all those years ago, when Sam had first shown signs of being different, failed; if John realised that his son was less than human, if the news about what _exactly_ Sammy was, spread amongst the other hunters, well, then Dean wouldn’t be enough.

If John figured out exactly what Yellow Eyes had done to his brother on that horrid night all those years ago, then Dean wouldn’t be enough.

Sam would die. And Dean would be damned before he let anything bad happen to his brother.

* * *

Dean sighed as he leafed through the books he’d taken out of the religious section of the library, before closing them and dumping them on the ‘useless’ pile, along with a couple of books Uncle Bobby had leant him.

Those books weren’t what had caused him to sigh though, no, he had enough books on the ‘important’ pile for his endeavour to be considered successful. No, what had made him sigh was the fact that John had been gone for a week longer than he should have been, and they were soon going to run out of money.

The cash that John had left them covered for food, but little else. Dean had to do things, like play pool, and a couple of other unsavoury jobs, in order to get a little extra money. This made up most of their income, for things like buying Sam the new clothes that he was rapidly growing out of, additional food and treats, school supplies, and certain items that Dean needed to transform himself and keep bruises that a drunken John often mistakenly left visible on his face, hidden.

But with John gone longer than expected, they were short on food money. He would have to go out tonight and try to earn some more.

Glancing down at his watch, he saw that he still had half an hour until he had to pick Sam up from his friend’s house, where they were working on a group project for their Science class. Good. That meant he could squeeze in twenty more minutes of research. 

He pulled the biggest book from his important pile towards himself, already preparing himself for disappointment. For although it hinted at the knowledge he needed, there was no guarantee that it would be relevant to him. Over the course of many similar research binges, he had learnt that all too often, the information in the books would be repeated in the others, without expanding on the topic and adding more information.

For the past year, he’d been searching for any clues on the identity of the figure he’d seen as a child. The one who had done something to Sam. The one who had killed his mom. 

The one with the yellow eyes.

Memories of that night flashed through his mind. The heat of the flames, the screams, the smell of blood. Those cold, dead eyes boring into him, and the common refrain of: _his fault, his fault_.

He shoved back the dark thoughts that threatened to choke him, and focused instead on the book in front of him, and his notes on the subject.  
Already, he had come along further than John. 

He had found out that yellow eyes were the trademark sign of a Prince of Hell. After hours more research following that trail, he’d finally been able to hunt down an old script that mentioned in passing the denizens of Hell, but spoke of only four names. Four names for four Princes. Azazel, Ramiel, Dagon and Asmodeus.

Now, he just needed to figure out which one of them had paid a visit to the Winchester household on that ill-fated night, or even if the demon that had visited was one of the four he had found.

He was also trying to figure out what exactly had happened to his brother. He knew that the demon had done _something_. He had hazy recollections of blood on his brother’s mouth, and a hand dripping with it, as well as, of course, the thing that had occurred when Sam was seven.

* * *

He’d felt absolute terror when Sammy, in the way seven year olds were wont to do, had thrown a temper tantrum of gargantuan proportions. Halfway through, his eyes had darkened, and the room had rapidly become colder. Papers were whipped up and swirled around in dizzying tornadoes.

It had taken a long time for Dean to calm his brother down, and Sam was now collapsed in an exhausted sleep. As Dean watched his brother, he realised, much to his horror, that Sam’s appearance had altered.

His skin had darkened to a strange olive tone, with an almost reddish tinge that was definitely not natural. His hair had, in contrast, lightened considerably, becoming a light caramel. But it was the eyes…the eyes that Dean had only just managed to glimpse, which caused the real unease to spread through his body.

Where they had once been a warm brown, the colour of freshly tilled earth, they now resembled a cool, honey tea, amber colour. This in itself didn’t sound too alarming, until one realised that the pupil was now also this colour. Or rather that the pupil had disappeared. Completely.

He shuddered. But he wasn’t scared of his brother - the terror he felt wasn’t because of what he had done or might now be able to do. No, it was the fear of what John, what all of the hunters, would do if they discovered what he had seen. The very thought made him feel sick, and he swallowed back the nausea that accompanied the idea.

He bit his lip, hard enough to draw blood, and began pacing. He needed to do something! John would be back in a few days and if he saw Sam like this…

He shuddered again. 

He didn’t know how long he had been pacing up and down when the idea came to him. He rushed over to the table at the centre of the motel room, where one of his many journals sat.

Shoving aside a few books, he flipped it open, looking for the write up of a hunt from a few months ago.

That particular hunt had been given to them by one of John’s contacts, who had identified the monster, but had been forced to leave town before he could finish it off. Or rather finish _them_ off, for it was a pair of Vetalas haunting the local strip clubs and causing the deaths.

At that point, the number of deaths were low enough to not draw outside police attention, but were certainly higher then what most pairs of Vetalas could produce. The hunt had gone downhill from there.

First, it had turned out that there was in actual fact two pairs of Vetalas in the area, and they weren’t above working together to harvest a larger number of victims in one go. The other bit of bad news was that the Vetalas could not be found. 

Dean and John had taken turns sweeping across the whole town, checking all of the regular hotspots with silver, but nothing turned up, and the bodies kept dropping like flies.  
In a rare moment of inspiration, John had figured out that the Vetalas would likely target a student party set to occur in the late evening. The party was an open occasion, so anyone could come, and would be filled with horny teens, perfect for any monsters hoping to get a quick bite. Dean hadn’t even been surprised when John had grunted at him to go. 

What had happened at that party was something he in equal parts wanted to forget, and remember forever, but that was beside the point.

No, what was really important was how the Vetalas had hidden themselves. With the use of human blood, they had performed some sort of ritual, which had caused them to be human in appearance and manner, meaning that silver had little to no effect on them, and their visage would be of a human when they killed. It was almost like a glamour; the Vetalas would still vamp out and go all fangy, but their appearance to the observer (normally the victim) would remain that of a human.

After they had been dispatched, Dean had tried to find the ritual they had used, curious to see how it had been done, and wrote down all the information he could about it in a notebook.

Now, that information would come in handy.

He found the right page and quickly scanned the writing. There, close to the bottom of the page, was a scribbled set of ingredients. The ritual itself was fairly simple, which was surprising, considering the fact that the results were so strong. It called for a small variety of substances, most of which could easily be found in a hunter’s everyday kit. The most important substance though…that would be harder for him to get his hands on.

The recipe called for familial blood. Or more specifically, the blood of a sire. The blood of John. 

Luckily, before setting out again, John had of course left behind a few soiled shirts from his latest contract for Dean to wash. These were covered in all sorts of unidentifiable substances, only one of them being blood.

So if Dean put them in water…He felt a small burst of hope spark in his chest. Maybe he could actually do this!

He grabbed the shirts and rushed to the motel sink. He plugged it in and flipped the taps on, watching as the basin steadily filled with lukewarm water. He pushed in the shirts and began to squeeze and twist them, hoping to get as much blood out as possible, and the water gradually turned into a murky brown colour.

Once he had judged them suitably wrung out, he took the shirts and tossed them into the open doorway of the bathroom. Looking down at the soiled water, he bit his lip slightly.

Would it be enough? He couldn’t risk it not working.

He spun around and hurried towards the motel kitchen, where the glasses were. He grabbed one, and turned back to fill it with the diluted blood.

Once that was done, he returned to the table on which his notes lay, and set the glass down carefully, before collecting the remainder of the ingredients from his bag.

He spread them out around the glass and prepared himself to begin the incantation. Something stopped him. It was nothing more than a feeling, but something told him that it was important. He felt, no, he _knew_ that the watery concoction wasn’t enough. He needed more for it to work.

His eyes flickered towards a small silver knife resting innocently atop a magazine he had gotten for Sammy earlier. It would just be a little bit…

Before he could lose his nerve, he snatched the knife off of its perch and made a quick, but deep, incision into a finger on his left hand. He had read somewhere that it would bleed a lot without fully hindering his movement.

He then hung the finger over the glass, not wanting to dunk it in for fear of infection. The feeling was there, albeit lessening in strength. He didn’t move his hand away until the premonition had passed completely. He then stuck a simple plaster on the wound, promising himself that he would fully inspect it later to see if it required stitches, and moved onto the next part of the ritual, finger stinging slightly.

It was fairly simple, only requiring him to place all the necessary ingredients in one cup, and say the incantation.

He did so. Nothing happened. He tried again. Nothing.

A swell of panic was rising in him. He couldn’t afford for this not to work, couldn’t afford Sammy not being hidden. The panic inside him had seemed to hit a near crescendo, when there was suddenly a bright flash.

Dean blinked dark spots away from his vision, and looked down at the table. The liquid looked different. It had worked. The ritual had actually worked!

Wasting no time, he quickly grabbed the glass and practically ran to the small motel bedroom and to his brother’s side.

Crisis averted.

* * *

Dean sighed at the recollection, grateful for the fact that the ritual still held after however many years it had been.

He looked back down at his notes, pulling free a newspaper article he had found a while back whilst hunting a low-level werewolf.

It was an article from 1972, which told of a massacre of nuns at St Marys Covenant, supposedly done by an insane priest who had killed himself afterwards. He had known it had to have been important, so he’d kept the article. Lo and behold, Uncle Bobby had later, in a passing comment, informed Dean that a year after the massacre, both of his grandparents had died in an unexplainable circumstance. He had known that it couldn’t have been a coincidence - that _had_ to have meant something.

And now, he’d found out recently that killing many ‘holy’ individuals was supposedly a way to communicate with the ones Downstairs, which proved his past suspicions correct.  
Something had happened all those years ago, something that was linked to his mother’s death, the yellow-eyed demon and his baby brother’s transformation.

The thought brought him back to his present mission - trying to figure out how exactly it all connected together and what it all meant. 

He continued his research for a while longer, before glancing down at his watch. He swore. He was going to be late for Sam.

He hurriedly stuffed the books and his notes into his bag, and ran to the Library exit. 

The Head Librarian called out a soft goodbye, which he returned, before leaving the building at a slight jog.

Turning the corner, he came face to face with the Impala.

The car, in his opinion, was the only thing John had ever done right by him.

He ran a hand across its body before sliding into the driver’s seat. Dean threw his bag into the backseat and inserted the key, starting the car. Music immediately blared through the speakers, and he found his lips turning up into a small smile. 

Luckily, Sam’s friend lived close, and he arrived outside the house in less than ten minutes, parking the car just in front and waiting for the familiar mop of curly brown hair to appear. Sam emerged quickly, and Dean grinned as he saw him waving enthusiastically at the car.

Still smiling, he leaned over and opened the passenger side door, his brother’s excited babble immediately greeting him.

“Hey squirt, how was your project?” he interrupted, taking the bag his brother handed him and tossing it into the back alongside his own.

“Great!” Sam exclaimed before launching into another story about his history class, jumping from topic to topic, barely giving himself time to breathe.

Dean hummed in all the right places as he listened to his little brother’s excited chatter fill the car the whole journey back to the motel.

“Okay kiddo, breathe,” Dean said, amusement clear in his voice as he pulled into the motel parking lot. Sam huffed.

“I _am_ breathing,” he said indignantly. Dean rolled his eyes. Eleven year olds were insufferable.

“Go grab your bag, then you can carry on telling me all about what happened when Sarah took your pencil,” Dean said, his tone that of an indulgent parent. 

Sam’s face screwed up slightly at his brother’s teasing, before he nodded, floppy hair falling into his eyes. Dean snorted at his enthusiasm. He unlocked the doors, and his brother bounced out as Dean followed at a more sedate pace.

Still smiling, he walked up to their room, Sam trailing behind him and chattering happily, arms waving. 

Once they arrived at their motel room, Dean inserted the key into the lock. The door swung open. He frowned. He hadn’t even pushed it. Dean shoved his brother behind him, ignoring Sam’s protests, before looking up and coming face to face with a gun to his head.

“Dean?” Sam asked uncertainly from behind him, before the light outside illuminated John’s form. His brother’s face immediately darkened. 

John gestured behind him to the dark room.

“Get in,” he said, voice cold.

“What’s going on?” Dean asked warily, entering the room slowly, and making sure he was in front of his brother the whole time, making himself a barrier between the Sam and the gun.

John didn’t answer, instead flicking on the lights. Dean could now see the feverish gleam to his eyes, and he felt Sam’s hand tighten on his jacket behind him.

“I figured it out,” John said, breaking the silence before walking to the door and closing it, then bolting it, gun still in hand.

“Figured what out?” Dean asked, trying to appear calm. Sam didn’t know about his research, didn’t know about the yellow eyed demon. And, although he had heard about Dean’s treatment at John’s hand, had seen what John could do, he had never seen John with a gun, never seen him so worked up, and Dean could tell that he was scared.

“This isn’t the first time it’s happened,” John said suddenly.

“The first time what’s happened?” Dean tried again, but John just ignored him and muttered to himself. 

“To realise that I’ve been raising one of _them_ all this time… They must’ve been laughing their arses off at me. But I figured it out, didn’t I.”

“Dean?” Sam asked him, his voice wobbling. Dean felt a shiver of fear travel down his spine. No, John couldn’t know, could he?

“John, what’s going on?” He asked, struggling to keep his composure and stepping forward, arms raised in a sign of surrender. This proved to be a mistake.

Because, instead of answering, John raised the gun and fired.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, expecting pain. It never came.

“Oh,” Sam breathed. Dean spun around, fear and panic filling him quickly. No, it couldn’t-Sam couldn’t-John wouldn’t-  
His brother collapsed.

Dean screamed, lurching forward, catching his brother in his arms before Sam hit the ground.

“W-what?” His mind had shut down; his hands trembled. John wouldn’t. He wouldn’t! Only he _did_. He _had_. Oh god, oh god, oh god.

Shaking hands tried futilely to stop the blood flowing out of his little brother’s body.

“Why?” His voice wavered, cracking.

“Don’t you see I had to? He was one of them. That was what the demon was doing! His blood! His blood!” John shouted the last words. Sweat glistened on his forehead. His eyes were mad.

Dean swallowed. Bile rose up in his throat. Oh _god_.

He didn’t even think before doing it. He stood. 

His vision was blurred with tears. The familiar weight of his small gun was comforting as he pulled it out of his waistband where he kept it. He fired. Dean turned, not even waiting to see John fall. 

He turned back to the small, _too small_ , body of his brother. His _little brother_. Glazed eyes stared up sightlessly at the ceiling, as if beseeching a non-existent god to help. 

He turned to the side and threw up his lunch in great, wracking heaves.

His little brother. Sammy. Was gone.

Oh god.

He threw up some more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And? Do i need to change my warning?


	4. End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His brother had been nothing but a pawn, a fucking pawn, in a game of higher beings wasting mortal lives. He clenched his fists at the thought. His little brother had meant _nothing_ to this monster, had meant _nothing_ to it in the grand scheme of things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops. So I kinda forgot about this. Anyways it’s here! I didn’t proofread this so sike all mistakes are my own.

Bending down, Dean covered the small box with gravel. He stood looking around the crossroads to see if it had worked. 

He had spent the past month tracking down as many crossroads as possible, always giving the demons who appeared the same ultimatum. 

His practise at identities had come in handy, albeit in a way wholly different from what he had first begun it for. They were meant for when he could safely get Sam away from John, when it would just be the two of them together against the world. He would use them and their backgrounds, to get them wherever they needed to go, do whatever they needed to be done, to survive. And to give Sam the life he wanted. At least, that had been the plan. Now though…

He swallowed, pushing his thoughts away from dangerous subjects.

In towns that he stopped by, he would often change into a character, making sure that they would have a paper trail, that if they were investigated for any reason they would be shown to be real, that if he ever had to go in deep for whatever reason, he would be able to totally and utterly become someone else, with their own history and ‘realness’, someone that a random Texas state diner store owner would be able to faintly recall seeing on an early Monday morning.

He then used these multiple identities to throw off possible hunters, trying to track him down. A story had been circulated by some unknown along the hunter grapevine that his body was possessed. That some evil sonofabitch had taken him round for a joyride and used him to kill John and—and—

He turned his mind away again.

Anyways. With this rumour had come those determined to either put him out of his misery or save him. He had bumped into a few at the beginning, before he was aware that he had become a target, and it was usually those who wanted to ‘save’ him that caused him the most amount of trouble. 

The ones who had tried to end him had been fairly easy to subdue, John’s harsh training making itself known. But the other type… Well, they were the ones who planned, who came up with all sorts of methods to force the ‘demon’ out. After three separate instances of this he had fallen back onto one of his personas, dying his hair, ditching the car and getting the hell out of dodge. Thus his life as a variety of different people had begun.

It had hurt, hurt to get rid of the Impala, his home away from home, but he couldn’t have afforded to be recognised, and he certainly would have, if he had continued to drive around in it. It wasn’t exactly forgettable. From the gossip mill he had learnt that it had ended up at Uncle Bobby’s. Good. He knew how to treat a lady right.

His days had been spent in various libraries across the country. And he had finally discovered what it had all meant, what it had all been for. Or thereabouts.

His brother had been a part of an experiment. An experiment started by _Azazel_ , the yellow eyed demon, and oh, didn’t _that_ bring mixed feelings, how John had spent so long looking for something only for his supposedly ‘worthless’ son to find it in a shorter amount of time. 

His brother had been nothing but a pawn, a fucking pawn, in a game of higher beings wasting mortal lives. He clenched his fists at the thought. His little brother had meant _nothing_ to this monster, had meant _nothing_ to it in the grand scheme of things. Or so he had thought. But then, then, _oh then_ , he had found something that had sent his blood boiling, had caused him to fly into an unstoppable rage for weeks on end.

It had all been planned. Sammy wasn’t just some unlucky child, experimented on for no reason like all the others. No, Azazel had a purpose. 

Because Sammy wasn’t just some kid, wasn’t just some hunters child, wasn’t just his brother. No Sammy had been destined for more. Destined for worse. Since birth his soul had been claimed, claimed by the most disgusting of all places, claimed by Hell. And Hell’s original ruler. Lucifer, better known as Satan, the Devil. His little brother belonged to it.

The lore didn’t say why, how or what for. Didn’t elaborate on what Lucifer could possibly have a use for it for.

The lore didn’t even specify if Lucifer _existed_. He was inclined to think otherwise. Surely all the little hunters’ would have noticed if there was the supposed First Evil going for a jolly little walk around the Hellmouth.

That still meant that Hell wanted his brother’s soul, had a _claim_ to his brother’s soul. And that’s where it was now.

That was when he had begun to try and find something, anything, to get him out, to bring Sammy back. Or, at the very least, find a way to free his soul from Hell’s slimy clutches.

But he then he realised that it would be a lot harder then he had originally prepared for. His research, hours and days and moths, had lead him to only one viable solution. A demon deal.

Demon deals dated way back to the truly ancient times. The records where spotty at best, but there were a few whispers, a few rumours, that the original deal had actually been made by an angel. 

Dean had scoffed. Sure Hell was real, but Heaven? Hell was simply a manifestation of human’s most twisted and darkest thoughts, their murderous and cruel inner selves. Like the way a spirit was born from a violent death, becoming something more in its rebirth. A famous, well famous amongst the hunters, author by the name A.J.Fell had written in his book titled: _Daemones, Cur Vous Futuens Malum_. It was an extremely pretentious old book, with an author who thought far too highly of themselves, but it got his point across.

_…so too was Hell created, like a burning rendition of all that which we most wish to keep hidden, all that we should keep hidden, a manifestation of our very souls, and lo, all evil we do will be done unto us in the fiery pits of our own creation…_

And that was exactly what was waiting for him at the end of the line, when he went through with it. But this wasn’t the problem he had, no, the problem that he faced, that kept him up at night, was what would happen once he brought Sammy back. What if the demons simply killed him again? Or manipulate him into saying yes, with no one there to protect him, could he even refuse?

There were too many possibilities, too many risks. And so he had begun to dig deeper, trying to think outside the box. And that’s when it had come to him.

And so now, he stood here, at the crossroads, once again. So far he had had little luck, the demons appearing unwilling to make a deal that might offer even the smallest chance for it to backfire, the smallest chance that they would be left with nothing in the end, no bargaining chip and no power.

He stood, shivering in the cold, the short, hole-filled pants he was wearing offering little protection. Goosebumps were appearing on his bare arms and he folded them tighter against his chest, huddling in on himself for warmth. And waited.

Depending on the mood they were in, the demon could make him wait like this for hours, laughing in satisfaction as he squirmed in the cold. Or the demon would appear quickly, refuse him and then go just as quickly, leaving him to stew in the humiliation of having failed again.

At the beginning of this mission, there had been demons who answered, who had, for some reason, jumped at the chance to take his soul. Only, once they heard his terms, to disappear just as quickly, hence his current desperation.

Which meant he needed to so something ballsy, something that the very idea of, sent small silvers of fear trickling down his spine. 

He had found some obscure reference in one of his hunter tomes to an event in some unknown area in the late 1700s, early 1800s. A group of young gentlemen, bored with the aristocratic lifestyle had formed a small group devoted to ‘demon worshipping’. It had been all for fun, no real rituals or spells used until a young scholar took an interest in it.

The others, merely boys in comparison, hung onto his every word, drinking it all in, and nominated him leader of their little cult. He was a firm believer of the Enlightenment, namely its ideal that humanity could be improved through rational change.

But this was where it all went wrong. Some unknown demon caught wind of the group and targeted this young scholar, praying on his thoughts. Demons, contrary to many popular beliefs, could only work with what was already in a human mind, ideas or thoughts that they had had, could only work if the human _had_ the potential to do something. It was easier for a demon to _twist_ a pre-existing notion then to create an entirely new one. And this was exactly what this demon did, changing the scholar’s borrowed ideals, making him believe instead that humans needed _irrational_ change to improve.

And so, in an almost fevered daze, he had urged all his followers to sell their souls to this demon, the one that had corrupted his mind, and that they should set the terms of the deal so that it commenced no more than a minute after. They had all died that day. But this wasn’t why the event was recorded.

No, it was recorded because of the valuable insight it had given. For it passed on important knowledge about demons, the ones who made the deals in particular. It showed how the shorter the time period for the collection of the deal, the shorter the human had left to live, the more power the demon was given.

And this was beyond valuable to Dean. It was his last ditch attempt, his most desperate option, plan negative-Z.

He was hoping against hope that the demon, whoever they were, would be greedy enough to take the deal with the added bonus of Dean dying straight away.

And he _was_ scared. He didn’t know what would happen, didn’t know what would come after, if there even was an after. But at the same time he did. He knew that he was in denial, denial about where exactly he would be going when he died. How his consciousness would more than likely be tormented for eternity in a world of unimaginable pains. 

He knew that many of the lower level demons were just human souls so twisted by the horrors of hell, mutated versions of themselves, hell amplifying whatever had gotten them sent down there, making it more, making it _worse_.

And he knew he was no saint. He had killed his father, killed his mother, no matter what his brother said. And-and worst of all he had _failed_ his brother. Had let him _die_. 

This, this hare-brained scheme, was the only way to redeem himself, to make things right. The world deserved someone like Sammy, and it _would_ have _him_ , even if he had to tear through the _very_ gates of Hell.

He scuffed his boots slightly against the gravel, waiting. The night had only become colder and judging by the star-covering-clouds it would become colder still. He closed his eyes, tipping his head back slightly and just tried to enjoy what may well be his last night alive. 

He had eaten a quick sandwich before leaving, his Last Supper a fucking cold turkey on white bread, a far cry from the fare Jesus had probably be gifted with. And the clothes he were to die in? Hole-filled, tight jeans that were more hole then jean, and a baggy crop top that did little in the way of his modesty. That was it.

If they found his body, bloody and bruised from whatever the hell the demon was going to do to it with its hounds, then he needed them not to be suspicious. 

He couldn’t risk Hunters catching wind of his death, couldn’t risk them once more having their interest in the Winchester name renewed. Not with the possibility of Sammy coming back. 

So instead he would just be another nameless victim of, ironically, a too violent, nameless john. It seemed john’s haunted him wherever he went.

The police would take one look at his clothes and write him off as just another poor whore, dead in some back alley fuck gone wrong. 

There might, of course, be a small pause of respect and sadness when they caught sight of how ‘young’ he was, a small moment of condescending pity for a life snuffed out too young, but that would be it. They would dry their eyes and be on their merry way, back to happy families, or corrupt behind back deals, or just general ineptness that could be found exclusively in the police force of America’s states.

He was pulled out of his thoughts by a husky, mocking voice coming from behind him.

“Well hello darling. Aren’t ‘ya a little young to be here all on your lonesome? Where’s Mummy and Daddy?” 

He allowed himself a ghost of a smile at his plan coming to fruition before wiping his face blank and turning to face the demon who had come to him.

It was wearing a leggy blonde, the kind of girl one would see in all those swimwear ads. Her clothes were only marginally less skimpy than his own.

“Hey sweetheart, you here to make a deal with little ol’ me?”

“Don’t ya know it! Now, what can I do for you?” The demon grinned down at him.

“Guess.”

“Guess?”

“Yep.”

There was silence as the demon frowned down at him.

“C’mon Sarah. Can I call you Sarah? You look like a Sarah,” He splayed his arms wide, voice saccharine sweet as he gestured to himself, “Surely you know who I am!”

The demon’s eyes widened before she froze.

“ _Winchester!_ ”

He winked at her in response.

She stalked forward, perhaps meaning to threaten him with her presence but was stopped. She looked down, fury and disgust twisting her face into an ugly parody of itself.

“ _Really?_ ” She hissed, looking pointedly down at the now exposed trap.

Dean shrugged in response.

“Wasn’t gonna take any chances.”

Sarah took a deep breath, visibly trying to calm herself. She pasted a smile of bland professionalism on her face.

“Alright then what will it be?” Her tone was that of bored indulgence. It wasn’t fooling anyone.

Dean let his lips quirk up into a humourless small half smile. He’d done his research and this was the only way it would all work.

“I want you to give Sam’s soul to the Angels.”

Whatever Sarah had been expecting him to say, it certainly wasn’t that. Her eyes widened in shock, mouth agape. 

“Perhaps you thought I was here to beg again? Beg for Sam’s life?” By the look on her face Dean had hit the nail on the head. Still, she tried to maintain her composure, he’d give her that.

“Well now that you mention it, that was what the others said you’d do. Can I ask why the change of pace?”

“Aww you guys talk about me? That’s real cute.” His eyes hardened. “And no, you can’t ask.”

“Can’t blame a girl for trying.”

There was silence before Sarah broke it again.

“Alright, kid, say I agree, what’s in it for me, huh? What makes me say yes when all the others refused?”

Dean spread his hands wide.

“Well, I’m glad you asked. My soul.”

“You’re soul?” She raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

“Kid you’re cracked in the head. ‘Course I get your soul. That’s hardly no luxury item. How’d you think deals worked, idiot?” She drawled mockingly. Dean glared hard at her.

“If you’d let me _explain?_ ” His voice was raised with impatience. He needed to get this done, now, before he lost his nerve.

This time it was the demon’s turn to raise her hands. She motioned for him to continue.

“As I was saying, you get my soul. Immediately. No wishy-washy handwaving, waiting for ten years minimum to finally collect, only for it to level through the bureaucrats. No, this is immediately, pronto. As in, as soon as the deal is closed, its yours. Well?” Dean didn’t even have to ask. He could see the greed lighting up in her eyes, and if she were less controlled, he was sure she would be jumping up and down in glee. As it were, she was bestowing him with a particularly beaming smile. 

“Alright, junior, consider it done. No come here and pucker up.”

He stepped forward and into the Trap, knowing that the demon wouldn’t dare try something, not with the prospect to have all that power hinging on his complacency, before standing on the tips of his toes to press a small kiss on the demon’s mouth. He shuddered as he felt the contract become binding, a curling warmth that seemed to snap into his chest.

The demons satisfied look quickly faded into a frown.

“What-?”

She was paling quickly, that in itself an odd sight. Dean didn’t think he’d ever seen a demon react so visibly to something. Sarah stumbled forwards, arms akimbo as she fell to her knees groaning.

He stated down at her dispassionately.

“Yeah. I never specified which angels I wanted you to give his soul to which means I could choose. And I chose the dead angels.”

He didn’t believe in Angels, sure, but a supposed ‘resting’ place for them? That was far more likely to be real. And the fact that he’d only come across it once or twice in some of his, even by Hunter standards, more obscure books, meant that it should be nicely hidden and tucked away. And best of all, inaccessible by others. It was a gamble, yes, but one he was willing to take for his brothers sake. This way no one would be able to interfere.

“Why you little bastard!” The demon snarled. “You’ll pay for that.” 

Dean could see her tremble, limbs shaking as a great swath of her power was used, draining her, to find and take his brother’s soul to where he had bound it to go with his deal.

Relief filled him. Ok, ok. He’d done it.

A low growl snapped him out of his head.

Dean whipped round, facing the direction of the sound. Hell Hounds.

The hounds kept coming. 

Dean backed away, stumbling into the Devils Trap, the baying hounds following soon after. 

Their eyes were vicious holes of dark colour. Red, dripping blood, dripping fear, it _twisted_ something inside of him, _devoured_ something inside of him. Some primal part of his brain was shouting in absolute fright and he choked, choked back the lump of fear and bone-chilling terror that threatened to force its way out of his mouth and form a long and bloody scream.

Those eyes bore holes into him.

They were the red of long nights spent fighting, bodies strewn across battlefields, the colour of the blood-seeped ground, all churned up by the warriors heavy boots, the red of their call to arms, their call to fight, to hurt, to win, be the victorious conquerors. The long dead warriors who battled it out for lands that had long ago ceased to exist, lands that names no one could even recall. 

They were the red of a desert sun, beating down mercilessly on the dune plains, the red of sightless eyes, dehydration making itself known, a lone body in an unmeasurable land. The ruby colour of the thin trickle that wound itself down someone’s back, the thin trickle that would become a river as humans stood upon large blocks, being judged, being weighed for their apparent worth in the eyes of society, eyes of their whip-holding, soon to be masters. They were the colour of unheard screams, of hopelessness, of the final spark of fear felt by all, before the end caught up with them.

He remembered sitting with Sam, in one of their rare moments of peace and quiet, watching some documentary on the TV. A David Attenborough. In it, a baby elephant had been separated from the herd. Trapped in unforgivable terrain it had fought, kept on walking, until it had collapsed. Even then it had tried, struggling. 

Dean remembered looking at it, how it knew that it was dying but kept fighting for life regardless, fighting to take another step, just one more, fighting against an intangible force of nature. It had been saved, by one of the herd who had come looking for it and Dean remembered the feeling of absolute relief that had filled him. 

But no one was coming to save him now. He knew, had known, that he would die on this day, but still he fought, like that elephant, even though he knew it would do absolutely nothing, fought against that invisible force. His weapons would make no difference, he was no cornered dog, rabid and feral in its defence, taking pieces of its attacker with it. Dean wanted to be, wanted the world to know that he had gone down fighting. But he couldn’t.

Because he _had_ no defence, no _way_ out, and he could fight, maybe, but the _fear_ , the fear that those eyes inspired in him halted any movement of resistance, the best he could do was plod steadily onwards till he collapsed.

He had hoped that he might face it with some semblance of quiet dignity. But standing here, now, eye to eye with the harbingers of his demise he wanted to do nothing more but to run. To run and for once in his goddamn life be selfish, leave Sammy to rot and just run. 

Sarah looked up from where she’d been kneeling, a look of savage glee on her face as she reached out her arms, choking Dean. But her triumphant smirk melted into fear, catching sight of the Hellhounds creeping forward and into the trap.

The hounds leapt. White hot pain seared through Dean’s body as the hound’s claws tore into his skin. The demons screamed next to him, feeling a twisted sense of satisfaction at hearing them. The world darkened then finally faded into black.

Dean Winchester was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay the end. For now.

**Author's Note:**

> So how was it?


End file.
